


imagine it's a warning sign

by sistermercury



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4657908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sistermercury/pseuds/sistermercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha learns that "indestructible" and "invulnerable" aren't always the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	imagine it's a warning sign

**Author's Note:**

> set somewhat vaguely in the Avengers universe, before the Long Weekend of Ultron (aaaaaand maybe ignoring the idea that Bruce and Natasha never did nothing romantical before then.)

 

“How on earth did you do that?” Bruce is avoiding her eyes, and she’s not sure why. Everyone on the team got hurt every once in awhile. But it was usually  _during_  the fight. Not after. Natasha’s hands hover over a bloody scrape in his side.  _No, don’t kid yourself, it’s a gash_ , she thinks as she watches blood slowly ooze across his skin. 

She had to climb down into the still-hot epicenter of a bomb crater to find him. No window for the lullaby this time, not when bombs come into play, and shielding the team from the blast had likely taken all Hulk had to give. When the smoke finally cleared, when Tony and Clint had chased off the stragglers, there was a brief panic when they found the scene Hulk-less. Natasha finds him curled up in the crater, about fifteen feet beneath the rest of them.

“Bruce-?” she prompts again, a little more frantically, and he finally looks up at her, not as coherent as he’d likely admit, hazy and drained, physically disoriented from the sudden change, and it’s a struggle to keep his gaze. ( _The Lullaby was healthier, he thought, not that he’d ever mentioned it to her. He came back feeling much less fractured under this sort of mutual agreement she and the Hulk had devised._ ) “I’m fine-” he says, although not much sound comes out. He sees shades of concern flooding her expression, reaching out to smooth the sweat-matted hair away from his face.

“I need some air support down here, I can’t-” she sighs into her comm, hand still twitching above his torso, about to press down to try and stop the blood, when he bats it away. “Not without gloves.” he mumbles weakly. She draws her hand back quickly, almost all the way to her chest. Right, she thinks. She’d almost forgotten. 

So she just sits with him, biding time until Tony can get him out safely, running her fingers through his hair to keep him distracted.  Her heart thuds uncomfortably in his chest. Well, she reassures herself, he’s not going to die down here. He couldn’t. He  _can’t_. The wound is troubling, though, but she supposes the culprit probably lies in some of the twisted shrapnel around them. Not exactly the best spot for an unceremonious collapse. It just means there’s a flaw in the system. He’s not invulnerable. Not at all, it seems, his skin (what isn’t covered with ash and dirt) is a stark, shaken white, nervous sweat pricking up on his forehead. No, he won’t die, but he’s certainly not  _well._

“Does it hurt…?” she asks gently, although she knows the answer, looking at the bruised, shredded patch of skin. “It’s nothing. Can’t even feel it.” he sighs, looking for all the world like he could sleep for ten years. The fact that he seems more embarrassed about it than anything is… promising. She gently tugs a grey-flecked curl. “Liar.” It earns her a smile. A very tired, very pained little smile, but it still manages to light him up that tiniest bit. 

Tony lands with a thud next to them. “I get that it’s fun, but you probably didn’t need me to give you-” He realizes he’s only been looking at Natasha, not at the bleeding man beneath her. “Whoa. What the hell happened there, Lima Bean?” He flips up the visor, and despite jokey pet names, he’s giving Natasha the same concerned, confused look she was trying to hide. He’s half-awake, but she’s pretty sure she catches Bruce rolling his eyes. “I woke up over there,” he points a shaking hand towards a pile of gnarled metal at the other end of the crater, the remnants of a HYDRA bunker. “Under that.”

No other explanation required, she supposes.

He scoops Bruce up like a pile of laundry, and it hits her how earnestly… _small_  he is. It was easy to miss, at first, because Bruce hid himself with bad posture, with clothes that were at least a size too big, with concealing white lab coats, but exposed like this, (and in obvious contrast to his other self), he seems…She doesn’t want to say fragile because it’s already on her mind, especially now that she realizes how much worse it could have been. It hits her that the word she’s looking for is  _human_ and sometimes everyone forgets that Bruce never chose the battlefield- he was shoved onto it with both hands tied behind his back.

Aboard the quinjet, she’s circling him like a hawk, gathering supplies as the others pile in past her, casting confused glances. Steve hovers over her shoulder as she snaps on a pair of protective gloves and preps a device that looks like an overly-complicated glue gun. “What happened he-” She nudges him out of the way and gives him a motion to just wait, leaning in. If Bruce is conscious, he’s pretending not to be, even when she reaches out to try and hold the torn skin closer together. Blood runs between her latex-covered fingers and pools against her palm. Pulling the trigger on the gun releases a kind of foam across the wound that bonded it together in a matter of moments. A bio-organic liquid stitch. One of Bruce’s prouder creations.

She’s taking her time, tuning out everyone else as the jet took off, cleaning up other scrapes and scratches as she found them, keeping an eye on his pulse, clearing the dirt and grime away from his face, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Finally she realizes there’s nothing left to do besides hover, and she covers him with the fleece blanket he keeps tucked away in his corner. It’s hard. Not to touch, not to paw at the hair near his temples, not to stroke her knuckles against the stubbled skin of his cheek. But she’s too surrounded here, and knows Bruce would feel exposed on this little island in the middle of the jet. And she wants him all to herself.

“Just an accident.” she finally says, settling into the seat next to Steve, who nods in understanding. “It’s just strange,” he mutters after a moment. “Seeing things this way. He usually has to take care of the rest of us.” She looks around. Now that everyone’s post-fight adrenaline has kicked off, they’re all sitting in a heavy, vacant silence, if awake at all. 

“Sometimes I worry we take him for granted.” he said, finally unzipping the upper portion of his uniform and casting it aside. Natasha made a faint noise of agreement. “I doubt he sees it that way.” she mumbles. She glanced over at the bed a few feet away. “Code Green isn’t exactly an eloquent solution,” Steve said with a frown. “He’s not a bomb.” Natasha’s not sure if Bruce and Steve have ever talked about this face to face, but everyone must have seen what happened today. Must have seen Hulk hugging a live explosion to his chest and clearing himself as far away from the team as time would give him. Hulk could be a bomb, something that needed careful defusing and precision. But he was a shield, too.

When they finally land, Thor volunteers to help Bruce, who is awake now and looks unabashedly miserable, off to his room. Sometimes Natasha thinks that Thor, despite his strength, despite his Godliness, is easily lost in the shuffle amongst their personalities. Sure there’s his charm, his spitfire temper, his humor, but people forget that Thor is  _kind_  sometimes. As Bruce tries to weakly insist on going it alone ( _because he can do it, he’s traveled much farther in worse shape_ ), Thor merely slips an arm around Bruce’s waist, distracting him with good-natured ego boosts.

“Think nothing of it, my friend. Allow me the honor of aiding the day’s victor.” 

Even Bruce can’t say anything to that.

* * *

Hours later when they’ve finally debriefed and argued about what could have gone better and apologized for the yelling and tossed back the appropriate amount of beers, she finally slips off on her own, relaxed and blood-free in leggings and a tank top, with some painkillers and water in tow.

She’s pleased when she opens the door to his room and finds it dark, shades drawn, and the faintest jazz piano playing on the nearby speakers, because Bruce hasn’t slept in complete silence for years and finds it strange. She’ll have to thank Thor later. Bruce usually sleeps in the seeming form of a bunched up candy wrapper but now he’s a little more loose-limbed, stretched out as much as pain will allow him. Sitting in the space he’s left, she slips the blanket down  around his waist, making sure his insides aren’t on the outside as she gently peels back the bandage. She’s no doctor, but she’s pleased with her work.

“Hey,” she whispers, shaking his shoulder slightly. And like that, It Lives, groaning into the blanket, bleary and pouting. Glassy brown eyes gaze up at her, and she wishes that these things didn’t turn her heart into pure jello. It wasn’t becoming. “What.” It sounds like he’s been gargling sandpaper. Raising an eyebrow, she purses her lips. “Thanks Natasha,” she said, uncapping the bottle and sorting out the appropriate amount of painkillers and antibiotics for him. “I’m also very glad I didn’t bleed out in a big hole in the ground. You’re my hero.” His sleep-blurred pout softens quickly, and he gives a low, humorless chuckle.

“Sorry…” A soft smile tells him he’s forgiven and she helps him sit up. In this light, most of him looks like one big bruise, and she knows it’ll be a few days before he’s Up and Nerding again. “Take these and I’ll let you sleep all you want.” she murmurs, placing the pills in his hand. She eyes him carefully, opting to give him the water herself. Every move he makes seems to require a painful amount of effort on his part. “You got everyone all worried.” she says as he finishes, holding him there for a moment, stroking one hand against his shoulder. He frowns, skeptical. “Why?” She can see the wheels turning in his head, however hazily. Bruce might have been quiet and exceedingly withholding but that didn’t mean he was hard to read. Exactly the opposite. 

“Bruce. Hulk took a bomb for us, and  _you_  got hurt.” she said, a little louder and a little rougher, forcing him to look at her. “I mean, also because you are their _friend_  and that’s what people  _do_  but…” He swallows hard and sighs. “It’s fine. I’ll be fine.” It’s her turn to soften now, glancing away. With Bruce, it seemed like the slightest evidence of his impact on others manifested this sort of…guilt. The worst part was how much she understood. It was easier to leave as little trace as possible. 

“The blast…something probably knocked him out cold.” he mumbled. “I’m not the only one who has trouble controlling who comes out and who stays in.” Natasha doesn’t like that uncertainty. But she’ll have to concede to it for now, and figure out how to work with the Hulk later. Nodding, she leaned in, pressing a kiss to his forehead. 

With a confused frown, she pulls away, brushing her hand against his cheek, his forehead. Finally, she puts her hand against his core to confirm- “You’re burning up…” she says, trying not to sound alarmed. She’s about to move, to check the wound again, because what if she screwed up, what if he’s gotten some kind of infection and he’s  _sick_  because she missed something- and she’s almost up when he catches her arm. “Natasha-” He doesn’t look worried. He almost looks amused.

“It’s fine,” it’s his turn to be soft, to gently rub at her back. “It’s always like this.” Her brow furrows thoughtfully and she settles back down beside him. “What are you talking about?” Reaching down, she tries again, clasping her hand against his cheek, thinking she might be mistaken, but the contrast between her skin and his is too stark. “When I come back, my body think’s I’ve been through pretty much every trauma you can think of…” he says, leaning into her touch. “And the difference between mine and the other guy’s metabolism is…big. The body tries to fix itself even though nothing’s broken anymore.” She nods. Even if the answer is a relief, it’s not a happy one. 

“Sit up…just for a second.” He complies with a wince, and she effortlessly slips herself behind him, settling with her back to the wall and pulling him to her. He seems to melt against her and lays back as she wraps around him accordingly. She ran cold by default, shoving her hands into sweatshirt pockets and against people’s necks if she was feeling prankish, but it breaks her heart a bit to hear him sigh in relief, to feel him shiver against her as she gently wrapped her palm against his forehead, the other placed just under his heart, these little beacons where the fever seems worse. 

“So you’re saying,” she mumbles against his hair. “That every time we wrap up a Code Green…you feel like this? And you’ve never said anything?” He makes a faint noise, curling against her even more. She’s watched him dive straight into R&R mode with Tony after a fight. They’ve had parties. They’ve had group dinners and  _Bruce has cooked._ A part of her wants to pinch him. The urge is really there. 

“Some days it’s not as bad,” he mumbles, which just seems to imply that there are days that are much worse. Those, she supposes, are the days that he slips away and it takes a day or so before anyone sees him. “And usually someone has a gunshot wound, or a dislocated shoulder or a broken wrist…” This one she knows to be true. As Avengers, they’re well taken care of, but in those first few hours, when things are dire, Bruce is all they have.

“There are enough… _ethical debates_  about how I fit here. This doesn’t need to be one of them.” She wants to argue back, that no part of being on the team required him to suffer in silence on anyone’s behalf, not even his own. She kisses his temple, trying to ignore the knot in her stomach as he burns in her arms. “If he’s actually helping people, what happens after isn’t important.” Her arms tighten around him and she strokes the hair away from his forehead.

“Stop…” she whispers. He’s right, she can feel his heart fluttering anxiously despite the stillness. She always knew the sudden switch between human and inhuman must have been hard, but she’s never seen it like this, never felt it. She knew Bruce was just as ‘walk it off’ proud as the rest of them, but this was a different level of unhealthy. “Just breathe…just rest…You don’t have to pretend. You don’t have to fight it, not today…” He says her name so quietly, she wants to split in two.

It takes awhile, she can tell because of his heart rate, but eventually he falls asleep in her arms. She’s not sure what to do with this. They’re more alike than they want to admit, but like Natasha, Bruce hates being treated with kid gloves. Any hovering on her part after a battle would likely go noticed and unappreciated. Maybe there’s nothing she  _can_  do without his permission. She dozes off what seems like a dozen times beneath him, occasionally waking and watching him, before drifting again. It takes the rest of the day, whatever’s left of it, and the better part of the night for his fever to break, and then and only then does she leave him.

* * *

“Oh my god, It Lives.” Bruce just glowers at Tony over a fresh cup of coffee, his first in two days, and  _yes_ , he’s still in his pajamas, but  _someone_  has to get something done around here, he figures. Dr. Cho has telecommed with him from Korea, asking if he wanted test her machine out on the wound on his side, so he won’t have a scar, but he politely declines. He worries about radioactive interference and how that might affect whoever used it next. Another thing he just figured he might break. 

“You scared the shit out of us, Big Guy.” Tony plops down next to him with some Dark Elf space junk Thor had recovered and a rad detector and no protective gear to speak of. “Not to be insensitive,” Bruce mumbled, eyes scanning over the morning paper. “But you all knew I wasn’t going anywhere, right?” Tony glanced over incredulously and poked Bruce in the neck with the tip of a screwdriver. “Hey. Don’t be callous. That’s my thing.” Bruce just sighed and shook his head. 

“It was stupid-” he starts but Tony cuts him off again. “You woke up under a pile of hot shrapnel. After saving  _all of us_. Like it or not, no one’s gonna let you write this one off. You did good.” Bruce stared for a moment, before contenting himself to silence again. 

“Don’t worry. Romanoff did most of the actual scaring. I tried to get my tablet out of your room and was almost defenestrated.” Bruce is grinning over his coffee. Blush peeks into the corners of his pale face. 

“Serves you right.” 

“You sleep on the 22nd floor, Banner.” 


End file.
